


To the Past or the Future?

by freckleslikeconstellations



Series: The Two Brothers [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Hospital Scenes, Multi, Pregnancy, Sexual References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 19:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5940211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and you have a decision to make. But you're not the only ones. Will Sherlock finally accept your relationship and come to your wedding? Or will history repeat itself and ensure that the Holmes brothers are separated forever?</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the Past or the Future?

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, thank you as ever for all your support! :D 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this. :)

_June_

 

When John leaves Sherlock to go and get ready for the wedding Sherlock’s sitting in his usual armchair. His legs are crossed and his hands are absent-mindedly twanging against the violin strings. Earlier on, when John had first come down for breakfast, Sherlock had been in more or less that exact same position, only instead of half-playing the instrument Sherlock had been polishing it, despite the fact that John knows he’d polished it the previous night. He’d been able to smell the polish when he’d come home from work. 

 

The annoying thing is John knows that Sherlock knows he can’t concentrate. Annoying because every time that John had looked at Sherlock, whilst he’d eaten his breakfast and considered breaching the issue that’s made the consulting detective more irritable than ever over the past few months, Sherlock had decided to make the screechiest noises that he could on the violin rather than actually respond like an adult.

 

John had therefore gotten no further forward on the matter by the end of breakfast and by the time he’d had to go to change. But he’s worked through Sherlock’s moods before, and even though this is a major one, even for him, he’s damned if he’s going to let the consulting detective get away with not attending his own brother’s wedding. 

 

So, in the vein of someone who’s suddenly forced to deal with an extremely difficult toddler John walks back into the living room as he’s tying his cravat and looks calculatingly at his flat mate.

 

Sherlock shows no sign of having even heard that John’s come into the room. But John’s no fool, he knows that Sherlock knows he’s there. 

 

“Sherlock,” John says, adjusting his position, “There’s no point even acting like you’re not coming because guess what you are. Your brother’s getting married today and”- Sherlock draws the bow across the strings, causing a resounding screech. John grimaces, before he goes on, “Sherlock I’ve had enough of this. Now get up, you’re coming and you need to get dressed.”

 

Sherlock doesn’t move for a moment. Then, very deliberately he puts the violin and bow down on the side table, before he shifts his position so that his face is buried in the chair and John can no longer see him. 

 

“Sherlock”-

 

“I'm not coming,” Sherlock retorts, his voice half-muffled by the chair. 

 

“Why?” John asks. He puts his hands on his hips now even though Sherlock can’t see him. 

 

Sherlock wriggles violently. “You _know_ why.”

 

“No I don’t,” John says, before he goes on huffily, “Please remind me why you feel the need to miss not only your brother’s wedding but the wedding of a very nice person who has been good to us?”

 

Sherlock doesn’t reply.

 

John swallows. Not knowing what he can say to possibly make Sherlock change his mind. Eventually he tries, “Well everyone will be disappointed that you’re not there”-

 

“So I’ve been told,” Sherlock interrupts, a distinct edge to his voice. 

 

John frowns because he doesn’t remember telling Sherlock that. But then again he’s lost track of _exactly_ what’s come out of his mouth the amount of times he’s tried to talk to Sherlock about this. “So you’re not going to come? And nothing I can say will change your mind?” he asks. Sherlock shakes his head. “Well thanks for being a good friend and for being there for F/N when she wants you to be.” Silence. John huffs out a breath and turns away so that he can finish getting changed. 

 

He returns to Sherlock once he’s fully dressed. Sherlock’s still got his face pressed into the back of the chair and John’s pretty sure that he hasn't moved since he left him. “I'm going now,” he attempts. Sherlock just makes a sound of recognition in his throat to show that he’s heard him. It’s not good enough for John. “Sherlock did you hear me? I said I'm going”-

 

“Fine,” comes Sherlock’s short response, before he wriggles in his chair once more. 

 

“I'm going because unlike you I actually care about what people think and care about being a good friend,” John can’t help but say in the hope that it will at the very least get Sherlock to think about his actions and their impact if he stays at home. 

 

He gives the consulting detective one last look, before he turns around and makes to leave the room. 

 

“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock tells him just before he can step through the door. 

 

John stiffens and his fists clench. He’s tempted to react, to spin back around and argue, but he knows that, that’s exactly what Sherlock wants him to do. More than that he knows that if he doesn’t leave soon he’ll be late, and he’s not going to be late for this. He’s going to be a good friend and he’s going to be there for you, whether Sherlock is or not.

 

As soon as John leaves Sherlock pulls his head back and swivels around in his chair, his face dry and his mind determined. Then he strides across to where he’s hidden the book that he’s been reading and takes it back to his chair with him. 

 

He might not be able to concentrate on it the same today he knows, but he’s at least going to try. 

 

* 

 

Mycroft’s not surprised to see that Sherlock hasn't arrived when he tentatively turns around as _‘Hymne a L’amour’_ by _Edith Piaf_ begins to play in the beautiful, ornately decorated room that he’s getting married to you in. 

 

Still he’s determined to have one day off from worrying about that and everything else if he can, and as you begin to walk slowly down the aisle his irritation and general worry about his brother soon fade. For you couldn't look any more beautiful, and with the healthy glow that surrounds you because of your baby bump now just being visible he thinks that you look even prettier than you would have done without it. A small smile lights up his face as his eyes dart down to it, before they quickly move up to fix on yours again. 

 

You’re taking in how handsome he looks with his dark tailcoat, silver waistcoat, light blue cravat and pinstripe trousers, and as you smile he stretches out his hands, which only makes you smile even more as you take hold of them. 

 

“So glad that the both of you could join me,” he quips, and you bat at his arm, a pretty flush on your cheeks. 

 

“Mycroft we’re being watched,” you hiss playfully back at him, pretending to be annoyed with him now by raising your eyebrows. 

 

“That hasn't stopped us before,” Mycroft replies so that only you can hear him just as the registrar-a short, squat blonde woman who looks to be attending a funeral not a wedding going by the severe expression that’s on her face-steps forwards. 

 

You grin back at your husband to be, but then as you get more in position and peer back out across the attendees of the wedding your brow furrows and your mouth frowns when you don’t see Sherlock anywhere. 

 

“Sherlock’s not here,” you say, turning back to look at Mycroft. 

 

“I know,” Mycroft says softly and promptly, pulling a bit of an awkward face, which shows you that he wishes you hadn't decided to mention the fact. Then he takes your free hand so that both of your hands are now in between his. 

 

The registrar clears her throat. “If you are ready to proceed,” she says a little icily, and a nervous ripple of laughter goes out amongst the attendees. 

 

“Of course,” Mycroft says, looking at the registrar, before he looks back at you steadily. 

 

You however bite at your lip and look around distractedly. “Wait,” you say, tugging one of your hands free from Mycroft’s and putting it on his chest. 

 

Mycroft lets out a little breath, before he hisses, “F/N, you _are_ the one who asked me to marry you,” loudly enough for the attendees to hear. They give a titter of appreciation. 

 

“Yeah get on with it F/N,” Greg calls, “I could bloody murder a drink.” You look at him as if you’re telling him off for his timing and Mummy Holmes turns in her seat so that she can look at him disapprovingly. For who does that young man think he is interrupting her son’s wedding?

 

“Just wait for one minute. Sherlock will be here I know he will. He’ll be mad if he turns up and he’s missed it,” you say, turning back now to Mycroft and the registrar, and you feel so certain of your words that it seems to make everyone else hesitant to protest or go against them for a moment.

 

“Five minutes, that’s all I can give you I'm afraid,” the registrar says, stepping back from you both. 

 

“He’ll be here,” you repeat, looking out hopefully towards the door. 

 

Mycroft huffs out a breath and lets go of you, before he steps back from you too, wiping a hand across his forehead as he does so. It’s so typical of Sherlock to keep you all waiting and to delay things, he thinks, even though he’s quite sure that he won’t be coming. 

 

Two minutes pass, the attendees get restless and Mycroft alternates between looking at you and not looking at you, whilst you keep your eyes stubbornly on the door. 

 

John, whose mind has been anxious and whose body has been half rising out of his seat and sinking back down again repeatedly ever since the delay was announced, finally makes his mind up and shifts awkwardly out of the row of seats he’s in, getting on several people’s nerves as he does so, before he scurries down and hurriedly approaches Mycroft. 

 

Everyone’s eyes seem to follow him, and as he gets closer Mycroft’s eyes go to him too. 

 

“Listen,” he says as soon as he reaches the eldest Holmes brother, “If this delay is about waiting for Sherlock then I hate to say it but I don’t think he’s coming. He was quite obstinate about the matter when I left, you know how stubborn he is.”

 

Mycroft nods because he _does_ know. Rather than focusing on his own disappointment however he feels more concerned about how you’ll react to his brother not showing up, so his eyes go instinctively back to you. 

 

“He’ll be here,” you say without even looking back at him when you sense that his eyes are on you. 

 

Mycroft sighs and shrugs hopelessly back at John because if you’re adamant about waiting some more then his hands are tied. 

 

John, seeing the problem, nods and says, “Anyway, just thought I’d let you know.”

 

“Thank you Dr. Watson,” Mycroft says in a voice that tells the good Doctor he’s not that thankful at all. 

 

John scurries back to his seat. 

 

During the next minute you keep your eyes fixed on the door and Mycroft can feel the energy that's thrumming from your body as you will Sherlock to appear. He meanwhile looks at you in a rather troubled fashion, wondering every time he does so if he should bring this nonsense of waiting for someone who’s never going to show up to an end. Whilst when he’ s not doing that he tries to keep his mother placated whenever she catches his eye and gestures with her hand for them to proceed with the wedding. Mycroft’s already picturing the angry phone call that she’ll be giving Sherlock. He would not like to be at the receiving end of that one, that’s for sure. 

 

“Its been five minutes,” the registrar says, stepping forwards and tapping Mycroft on the shoulder to bring him out of his thought. 

 

Mycroft nods at her, huffs out a breath and goes towards you again. He puts a hand carefully upon your arm. 

 

“Just one more minute,” you insist, shaking him off, whilst your heart does a bit of a gallop in your chest as you will Sherlock to appear. You could even cope with him having his hair messy and being inappropriately dressed as long as he turns up you think. Still there’s no sign of the consulting detective. 

 

_“F/N,”_ Mycroft attempts, his hand going to you more insistently now. 

 

“Okay,” you relent, your heart sinking and your shoulders slumping, for you’d really thought that Sherlock would come. Really thought that for once he might have been able to put this silly issue behind him. 

 

“It doesn’t matter as long as we’re here,” Mycroft reminds you softly, turning you back to face him now and taking your hands in his. You stare at him, and as you do you both know that he’s lying. “And little Holmes of course,” he adds, giving your stomach a delicate little pat, and hoping as he does so that it will make you smile.

 

You do so in spite of yourself. Then, all of a sudden, you seem to go into a daze until you come out of it and find that you’re in the middle of saying your vows, whilst Mummy Holmes cries in the background, Father Holmes smiles serenely, Molly beams and John tries to enjoy and appreciate the moment and not think about how annoyed he still feels about Sherlock’s childish behaviour. Greg meanwhile still looks as if he could murder a drink. 

 

Indeed when you next see your boss at the reception he’s already looking a bit worse for wear, a half-drunk lager in his hand, and the first thing that he says to Mycroft is, “At least you don’t have to worry about tradition tonight mate, unless you want to make another one.”

 

You flush a little and Mycroft looks suitably awkward too, but thankfully he’s saved the trouble of having to come up with an answer when Greg stumbles off.

 

“Well we could,” Mycroft teases, recovering quickly as he looks down at you. 

 

“I thought we’d already decided what we were going to do tonight,” you say with a smile, already looking forward to the moment when you can take this dress off and hold your husband in bed in the hotel room that you've booked for the night. 

 

Mycroft smiles back at you. Then he goes on to roll his eyes a moment later when Mummy Holmes joins you both and says how cross she is with Sherlock, before she starts to ramble on about baby things.

 

*

 

You lie down fully naked aside from your underwear-you now wear a bra to bed because it’s hugely uncomfortable otherwise-on the plush, white soft duvet that’s on the bed. You've rubbed oil across Mycroft’s chest and massaged his shoulders and now it’s your turn. You close your eyes as your head hits the pillow and let out a groan of pleasure when you start to feel Mycroft’s hands caressing and massaging your stomach. 

 

“Is that all right?” Mycroft asks, naked aside from his underwear as he kneels in between your legs. His eyes flick up to yours quickly, before they go back to your stomach again where his hands continue their work.

 

“Mmmhmm,” you say, with a bit of a dreamy expression on your face, before you shift your position a little and urge him to, “Try a little lower.”

 

Mycroft complies, before he pushes his fingers back up the slope of your stomach once more. You let out a groan of satisfaction and wriggle about a little when he goes on to repeat this a few more times. 

 

“Didn't any one ever tell you that your husband has magic fingers Mrs. Holmes?” Mycroft asks, his eyes shining with something teasing as they go back to you. 

 

“I don’t think they did Mr. Holmes,” you reply a little breathlessly back, and Mycroft smiles, giving one final caress to your stomach, before he bends his head down so that he can kiss it. 

 

“Mmm, please come here so that I can kiss you right now,” you urge, arching up against him a little, before you sink back down again when he draws back from you. 

 

He tilts his head as he pretends to consider the issue, whilst he sits on his knees. “Hmm, I don’t know,” he says, “I could definitely do with another massage”-

 

_“Myc!”_ you protest, squeezing him with your legs, and he lets out a bit of a laugh, before he pushes one of your legs away so that he can release himself from the prison you've captured him in. 

 

He clambers over you, before he swings down so that he’s lying off to the side of you. 

 

You half-turn towards him and your fingers come to tangle in the hair of his chest as your lips finally join together passionately. Mycroft’s hand goes up to steady your waist as your body instinctively rolls closer to his, and you both make various sounds of pleasure as you come to push closer together.

 

“Mmm husband,” you breathe as you finally draw back from each other. 

 

“Mmm, beautiful, beautiful wife,” Mycroft teases. Then he presses a few kisses to your face and one final delicate one to your nose, before he draws his head back up again. 

 

You just hold onto each other for a moment, Mycroft staring into your eyes and you running a hand through his hair. 

 

Then, once your breathing has calmed down a little, you draw your hand back from him and reveal slowly, “I went around to see Sherlock last night.” 

 

He jerks back a little from you, his hand shifting against your waist. You wish that he wouldn't have such a reaction. Wish that you didn't even have to talk about such things on tonight of all nights, but it’s been the elephant in the room all day and you can’t keep ignoring the issue any longer. You can tell however that Mycroft would have been quite happy to avoid the issue for even longer, for when he asks, “Did you?” you can tell that he’s trying to keep his voice even. “What was the outcome of that little visit?” 

 

Your heart sinks at his tone, but still you want to be honest with him, so you open your mouth and begin to tell him. 

 

*

 

You hadn't been the best pleased about having to pop around to Baker Street the night before your wedding. You’d been staying with Molly that night and she’d acted as if you’d gone mad when you’d told her about what you were planning to do. But you’d felt that it would be more than worth it if it finally convinced Sherlock to get over himself and attend the wedding. For one thing not only would it please you to finally be able to put all this silliness behind you, but you’d known that it would please Mycroft too, even though he’d probably never admit it. Just like he’d probably never admit it if you were to question why you’re sure that you've caught him brooding on the odd occasion ever since you’d come back from France and whenever he thought you weren't looking. 

 

Mrs. Hudson had let you in. She’d looked at you as affectionately as she always had, though she had looked surprised by the timing of your visit. “F/N dear,” she’d begun, “Whatever are you doing here the night before your wedding? Everything’s all right I hope?” 

 

“Things are mostly fine yes,” you’d told her, before you’d bent to kiss her on the cheek. “I’ve just come to try and talk some common sense into Sherlock. Is he in?” 

 

She’d let out a little chuckle at that. “You’ll be the first,” she’d said, before she’d added, “Yes he’s in.” Then she’d asked, “Can you manage?” as you’d shuffled past her and looked upstairs. 

 

“I’ll be fine thanks,” you’d said, nodding and smiling back at her, before you’d started the ascent. 

 

You’d had to smile at her checking if you’d be fine as you’d went up. For the amount of times that you’d had Mycroft treating you as an invalid ever since you’d become pregnant…you’d had to tell him off in the end. Thankfully he only treats you as an invalid twice a day now. 

 

Sherlock had been polishing his violin, but as soon as he’d spotted you coming in through the door he’d put both the violin and polish aside and jumped up. “F/N is everything all right?” he’d asked, and you’d been able to tell from the look in his eyes that part of him had still been hoping that you’d choose him over his brother, even at this late hour. 

 

“Yes Sherlock,” you’d said with your remaining patience, before you’d moved forwards. You’d kept a careful hand on your stomach as you’d done so. 

 

Sherlock had looked at the bump rather disdainfully. 

 

“I know you don’t appreciate it, but that’s your nephew or niece in there,” you’d told him with a guarded expression on your face as you’d sat down in John’s usual chair. 

 

“It’s not him or her I don’t appreciate,” Sherlock had said with a dark expression on his face as he’d thrown himself back down into his chair. 

 

You’d made a sound of displeasure at that and shifted a strand of hair away from your face. Then you’d looked at him steadily as you’d gone on to reveal, “That’s why I'm here. I wanted to ask whether you’d consider changing your mind about attending the wedding tomorrow.” He’d looked at you in an unimpressed fashion. “Sherlock,” you’d huffed, “I want you there, Mycroft wants you there, as does your mother and father and quite frankly everyone else. Greg even said that he’d buy you a drink or several if you went”-

 

“I’ve never been interested in getting drunk, and I find it hard to believe that you’d really think that that of all things would persuade me,” Sherlock had interrupted you moodily, and his hand had reached for his violin, before he’d twanged it with his fingers. 

 

You’d run a hand through your hair. “I know,” you’d told him, before you’d gone on quite without thinking, “I think Greg just said it because he thought it might help get you through it.”

 

You’d known that it was the wrong thing to say as soon as the words had left your lips. “Help get me through it?” Sherlock had hissed, and he’d almost slammed his violin down on the side table, before he’d jumped to his feet. “You have _no_ idea how much my brother and you have put me through do you?” he’d asked, and his expression had been both one of anger and incredulity. He’d turned away from you for a moment. You’d swallowed. Then you’d flinched when he’d turned back to you and blurted out, “I love you! Do you have any idea of how much that horrified me when I realized?” He’d paused. “All my life I’ve had my brother calling me stupid and telling me that caring is not an advantage. Then along comes you, and not only do you make me fall for you but somehow you make my brother fall too! My brother who has never got close to anyone! My brother who I never once thought would provide competition for me in that way.”

 

You’d bitten at your lip, feeling guilty, awkward and annoyed with yourself for doing such a bad job. Then you’d gotten up and said, “I'm sorry, that was stupid of me, I know this hasn't been easy for you, of course I do. All I'm asking for is for you to come to my wedding, for me if not for your brother, because I might not like you in that way Sherlock but”-

 

“Don’t say it,” he’d interrupted. 

 

_“I”-_

 

“Don’t say any of the cheesy crap that you were about to come out with because it might work on Mycroft but it won’t work on me,” he’d informed you, before he’d turned away from you. 

 

“I don’t care if it’s cheesy,” you’d blurted out angrily, “And for the record it works just as well on Mycroft as it works on you! But it’s true! You’re one of my best friends and I want you there! So does Mycroft”-

 

“No he doesn’t,” Sherlock had said, and he’d shoved his hands in his pockets, before he’d looked away from you. 

 

“Yes he does,” you’d said, and you’d stepped up to him then. “You've seen him get upset before, I know you have. You've felt how much it affects you in return. And if that doesn’t make you want to come either then just remember everything that he’s done for you over the years. Every time he was there for you when you were scared or frightened”-

 

“He was the one _doing_ the frightening”- Sherlock had scoffed. 

 

“ _Every_ time Sherlock. Just think about that”-

 

“What if I don’t?” Sherlock had asked testily as he’d looked at you. 

 

“Then, if you can’t think about the past, think about the future instead. I know you don’t want history repeating itself and for Mycroft and you to have a relationship like that of your father and his brother. The best way to stop that would be to agree to draw a line under all of this for the new baby’s sake if for nothing else because I want you to be a part of this baby’s life, and I know Mycroft does too. I’d even like to make you godfather despite the horror that it would probably cause Mycroft.” Sherlock had snorted in spite of himself then, and as a smile had briefly lit up his face you’d smiled too. It hadn't been long before he’d shifted his position and got a more serious expression on his face though. 

 

“Please just at least say that you’ll think about all these things tonight, before you refuse to come completely?” you’d asked him softly as your hand had gripped onto his shoulder.

 

His body had turned towards yours instinctively. “Okay,” he’d said. 

 

*

 

Mycroft huffs out a breath and then swings out of bed, going to stand so that he’s got his back to you. 

 

You roll onto your side and just watch him for a moment, drinking in his profile-the slight hair that he has on his back along with the freckles upon the smooth, milky white skin that’s illuminated in the light that comes from the bedside lamp. 

 

Then, when you see him letting out another heavy breath and your heart wishes that he didn't have to feel such things on today of all days, you say, “I'm sorry I couldn't change his mind Myc. I know how much you wanted him to be there.”

 

“No, I”- he gets out a little distractedly as he half-turns his head towards you, before he turns towards you fully as he goes on, “I'm not angry with you F/N. In fact I should be thanking you, not many people-actually I don’t think _anyone_ -would have tried to do that for me.”

 

“Well I always will,” you say, looking at him steadily. Then, in an attempt to distract him from his disappointing brother even more you hold out a hand towards him. “Come here husband.”

 

He smiles, before he does just that, giving a gentle brief caress to your stomach as he goes past. 

 

You both shuffle under the covers, before he cradles you as you lie on your back. 

 

You smile. For right in that moment it doesn’t matter so much about Sherlock not coming to the wedding. Right in that moment you’re home. 

 

*

 

_July_

 

“Okay, now I'm not going to ask you to close your eyes just yet, but as soon as you get outside the door I _do_ want you to close them,” Mycroft instructs as he follows you slowly upstairs. 

 

You roll your eyes. For Mycroft might think that he’s been operating underneath the darkest cover and fooling you all this time but the ambiguity of what he’s been doing to the spare room has hardly been a mystery to you. Not when he’s been coming to bed with flecks of blue paint splattered on his face and forearms to accompany the look of pure flushed accomplishment that he’d been wearing. Still, up until now you’d done your bit and pretended to be largely oblivious to the whole thing because you’d known that, that was what he wanted. 

 

_“F/N?”_ he asks, clearly checking that you've heard him now. 

 

“Sure, sure,” you say, waving a hand back at him and letting out a bit of a breath when you come to reach the top of the landing. 

 

It’s Mycroft’s turn to roll his eyes, and he taps you on the bum, before he gently pushes his way in front of you. 

 

“Hey,” you protest, thinking that he’s calling you slow. 

 

He looks back at you. “You’ll get absolutely no more Haribo from me until you start to do what I say more willingly.” 

 

You roll your eyes. _‘Sir’_ may have not made a re-appearance in the bedroom since your pregnancy, but Mycroft’s found other uses for him, this-a threat to deny you of any Haribo, which you've had a weird craving for over the past few weeks-being one of them. “Good luck with that Sir,” you can’t help but quip as you follow Mycroft to the door of the spare bedroom. For Mycroft’s already got a bruise just below his shoulder from where you’d hit him after he’d tried to deny you of them before, so he of all people should know not to make such a threat. 

 

“Close your eyes,” he frowns, clearly not being put off by his previous injury. 

 

You huff out a bit of a breath. “I don’t even know _why_ you’re pretending this is a surprise. I may be a goldfish but even _I_ know that you've been painting the room. I'm not that stupid,” you say, finally giving up on this pretence. 

 

Again Mycroft frowns. “But you don’t know _exactly_ what the room’s going to look like”-

 

“Well,” you begin, stepping forwards and licking one of your fingers quickly, before you swipe it across where there’s a fleck of blue paint across his jaw, “I know that it’s going to be blue, which annoys me a little I have to confess because I don’t want to make assumptions about the gender”-

 

“I just have a feeling,” Mycroft admits, putting his hands in his pockets, whilst he shifts his position a little.

 

“And you know that I like it even less when _you’re_ the one making assumptions because you’re probably right and it just feels like you’re spoiling something we shouldn't know about”- 

 

“Will you just take a look at the room?” Mycroft interrupts, sounding both frustrated and deflated, and without even telling you to close your eyes again he pushes the door open. 

 

Your head swings away from him to look through it automatically. Your lips begin to part as you step forwards. 

 

Mycroft follows you apprehensively. 

 

The walls _are_ blue, but a calming beautiful sort of shade, and one that makes your shoulders relax as soon as you look at them. A beautiful wooden crib lays in the centre, empty now but not for much longer, whilst a wooden mobile of umbrellas hangs over it, making you smile. Just off to the right of it by the wall there’s a brand new wooden chest of drawers, the exact same shade as the crib, and you’re sure that if you were to open them you’d find the small mountain of baby clothes that Mummy has gifted you both already. To the left of the crib stands a really expensive looking black pram, complete with a hood that can be pulled down to protect the baby from the weather. 

 

Mycroft clears his throat. “I’ll probably move that downstairs, germs and everything, but I just wanted you to see it with everything else”-

 

“Myc”- you begin, but you soon break off when he clears his throat again and steers you gently around so that you can see the changing station that he’s installed close to the door, along with the high chair that’s on the other side. Both look expensive and pristine. 

 

“Same with the high chair, that of course can go downstairs, but I just wanted you to see that”- Mycroft begins to ramble again. 

 

“We’re _really_ doing this?” you gasp, feeling a little dizzy from the fact. For yes of course you know that you’re pregnant and your hormones have been a little wacky to say the least at times-you've even been scaring people at work-but this is the first major physical change that’s happened to the house, and seeing everything and knowing that at some point soon you’ll be using it all and that you’ll somehow be expected to take care of a baby doesn’t half make you nervous. 

 

Mycroft looks at you with a little puzzlement in his eyes. But then when he sees that you’re only suffering from perfectly natural nerves he draws you close to him for a moment, cradling you to him as if you’re the most precious thing in the whole room. As he does so he feels his own nerves and insecurities flood back to him, but he tries to be reassuring all the same when he says, “Yes, I believe we are.” Then, trying to stay positive, he pulls away from you and you smile at him. “Come,” he says with a gleam of excitement in his eyes, and he grasps your hand in his, before he leads you over as quickly as you can go to the crib. Once you’re over there he lets go of you and bends down to admire the mobile, his mouth partly open as he flicks at one of the umbrellas with his fingers. It expels a soft tinkle of noise. “Little umbrellas,” he says, looking ridiculously pleased with himself as he looks back at you. “I couldn't believe it when I saw it on-line. I thought it was perfect for us.” He goes back to gazing admirably at the mobile again, and you just watch him for a moment with a soft smile on your face. 

 

You’d never thought that you’d ever get the chance to see him like this-getting excited about baby stuff. Never thought you’d see his eyes dancing with so much light and happiness and his face so soft and gentle because of such a thing, and you can’t help but think of all the similar moments that are surely waiting for you just around the corner. You let out a soft, fond breath.

 

It makes him look back up at you. “What?” he asks you curiously when he sees how you’re staring at him. 

 

You smile at him for a moment longer. “Nothing,” you murmur, but then when he gives you a questioning look you say, “I just love you that’s all,” because you feel like you should say something and really there’s no other way to explain it. 

 

Mycroft feels something pleasant run through him. He smiles. “You like everything then?” 

 

“I do,” you nod. But then as the initial excitement and awe about everything begins to wear off and you look around more and take it all in and take in how perfect it is, _too_ perfect in fact, you can’t help begin to feel a little uneasy and you go on cautiously, “It must have cost a lot,” and Mycroft’s face falls at the fact that you aren't fully satisfied. He can’t know that rather than not liking everything you’re sensing that there’s a deeper reason behind why he’s felt the need to spend so much. 

 

“Nothing was cheap no,” Mycroft confesses as he straightens up and nods, before he puts his hands into his pockets and rocks back and forth a little on his heels. “But our baby deserves the best,” he adds, as if that’s enough of an answer. It isn't, and even he must know such a thing because he looks away from you quickly as soon as he’s said it. 

 

You look at him, feeling all the more worried now, and wondering as you do so whether you should explain to him what you think this is really about. For as much as you want to say it is it wise to? Will it only make things worse? But then he looks at you as if he senses that you've got something to say. You hesitate. Then you take the plunge and ask, “Mycroft you don’t think that you’re trying to over-compensate by doing all this do you?” He looks at you. “I mean as soon as the wedding was over you started doing this room, as if it was giving you something else to focus on when you weren't at work other than the situation with your brother. It’s wonderful, don’t get me wrong, all the stuff is really nice. I mean you've spent way more than was necessary but it’s really good quality and all of it will be really useful, I just”-

 

“First you were wanting me to make an effort and now I'm making _too_ much of one, make up your mind F/N,” Mycroft says, not looking at you, and he makes to stride out of the room because he can’t deal with all of this right now. 

 

“Myc I'm not,” you begin desperately, stepping forwards. “I’ve seen you brooding,” you call quickly after him and Mycroft stops. “I’ve seen you brooding and I know that after what you told me before about your parents you don’t want the past repeating itself.”

 

“It’s not about that,” he says, turning back to you and breathing hard, “It’s about the fact that I really made an effort with this room, and I really hoped you’d like it”-

 

“I _do_ like it”- you protest, “But we both know that the reason you’re getting so hung-up on me liking this room and everything you've bought is about what happened before and more importantly about what’s happening right now with your brother.”

 

He stares at you steadily for a moment, breathing hard. “Fine,” he huffs out, “It is partly about that but it’s about more than that too”-

 

“What?” you ask softly, your eyes looking at him concernedly now. 

 

Mycroft can’t bear you looking at him like that, can’t bear the disappointment that he feels with himself. He turns away from you, but doesn’t make to leave the room. 

 

You go up to him and stretch out a tentative hand so that you can place it on his shoulder. _“Myc?”_ you encourage. 

 

He swallows and shrugs you off. There’s a long moment’s pause. “I'm never going to be good enough,” he says, and it comes out so quietly that you barely hear it.

 

You do hear it however and you freeze into place. _“I”-_

 

“You don’t get it,” he says, swallowing and turning back around to you now, and you take a step back as you see his hands curling into fists so that you can observe him more. “Last Christmas, I had all these…all these _ideas_ in my head about what we were going to do and how perfect it was all going to be. My brother ruined that”-

 

“No he didn't,” you insist, stepping forwards, “He was a right git that day, but we still had a nice time afterwards didn't we? We didn't let him spoil things.”

 

“Then there was Paris, and again that should have been better than what it was”- Mycroft goes on, acting as if he hasn't heard you. 

 

“What are you talking about? I loved Paris”-

 

“If you knew how I feel inside,” Mycroft begins with his voice trembling, and he seems so frightened of what’s coming out of his mouth that he can barely look at you as he says it. 

 

You start to cry, beginning to feel afraid. “What? What do you feel inside? Tell me,” you beg, cupping your face slightly with your hand now so that you can try and stem the flow of tears. 

 

He swallows and opens his mouth. He closes it a moment later; the words seem to be stuck inside his throat. He shakes his head. 

 

“Myc please,” you urge. 

 

_“Don’t,”_ he shakes his head more insistently, “You don’t understand”- he goes on, his eyes looking behind you, fixing on the mobile of umbrellas again. 

 

“Then for God’s sake make me!” you cry, getting angry now. 

 

He swallows. Then he looks back at you but still he can’t get the words out. 

 

It doesn’t matter though, for as soon as you look into his eyes and he looks into yours, you understand and you feel cold all over because of it. You swallow yourself and take a deep breath. Your legs feel suddenly shaky. You try to move but you end up stumbling a little across to the left. 

 

_“F/N,”_ Mycroft breathes, coming across and steadying you at once.

 

“I can’t”- you mutter, and you end up sinking to the floor together. Mycroft lets go of you. You stare at him feeling dazed. He opens his mouth and that’s when your brain kicks into gear enough to ask, “Have you never wanted this baby? Not at all?” 

 

He looks down. “Sometimes I want it,” Mycroft says. You smile a little in spite of yourself. For you can’t do much with ‘sometimes.’ Mycroft seems to know such a thing too. “Sometimes I really, _really_ want it, I just…I don’t know if it’s because it’s inside you and not me, but I just can’t feel as excited about it like you can. All I can feel is worry and like I’ll never be good enough, like I'm bound to let you and the baby down, like I'm already letting you down because of the way I feel…”

 

You don’t know what to say to that, because in truth you do feel like he’s let you down. 

 

He seems to sense what you’re feeling because he lets out a troubled sigh. Then he says, “You should have chosen Sherlock. I clearly can’t give you what I should be able to, what you deserve.” You look up at him. He swallows. “All right,” he concedes, “The life you would have had with him would hardly have been conventional, but it would have been interesting, that’s guaranteed. You would have enjoyed it. You would have probably laughed more with him than you have with me. You wouldn't be pregnant; you wouldn't be dealing with all this and with me not being able to feel the way I should. You wouldn't have to face the fact that because of me you’re probably going to end up with a baby who’s all fat and wrong and”-

 

_“Myc”-_

 

“No, don’t you see? I can’t even get that right? I can’t even exercise enough and eat healthy to lose as much as I want to, I can’t even look after myself, God knows how we ever decided that I’d be able to look after you and a baby. We should never have”-

 

“Shut up, please, shut up,” you interrupt, tears on your face and your teeth almost chattering.

 

He just looks at you with his mouth open, as if he’s properly seeing you for the first time. The colour drains from his face. He swallows. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry that I can’t”- he breaks off then because you instinctively pull him towards you. His arms go around you and you rub at his hair and back soothingly. 

 

“You can and you've _always_ been good enough, despite what you might think,” you tell him. He shakes his head. “You _are_ ,” you tell him, even more firmly, and his fingers automatically shift against your arms a little when he can tell how upset you’re getting. “I didn't think I got married to a defeatist,” you say more crossly. He snorts and you rub at his back encouragingly. “Do you know why you’re struggling to deal with how you’re feeling?” He shakes his head. “It’s because you keep it all inside yourself. You need to talk about it. Didn't I tell you that I wanted you to be honest with me? No matter what it was about?” you ask, stroking at his hair rhythmically. He nods frantically and lets out a gurgle. 

 

“I couldn't,” he confesses, “I couldn't tell you because I was afraid if I did and you knew how much I was still struggling you’d have a termination. That and I wanted to believe that at some point everything would just click into place for me and I’d be fine,” he finishes, looking slowly up at you now. You swallow, and you can feel more tears pricking at your eyes as soon as he looks at you. He takes your hand in his. Squeezes it. “I’ve been trying”- he says.

 

“I know, I know you have,” you say, raising a trembling hand so that you can fidget with his hair again. You swallow and try to think coherently. “I guess,” you begin, and Mycroft looks at you calculatingly now, “I guess we’ll just have to hope that at some point things _will_ click into place for you”-

 

“And if they don’t?” Mycroft asks with a worried look upon his face. 

 

You shake your head. “I don’t know,” you tell him, and your hand stills in his hair. 

 

*

 

Neither Mycroft nor you seem to know what to say to each other over the next few days. Mycroft knows that you’re disappointed in him yet again and he keeps his head down and largely stays out of your way. You meanwhile can’t believe that despite the passing of time, Mycroft’s attempts to try and make it otherwise and the fact that you’re now husband and wife, things are still clearly much the same on an emotional level for your husband with regards to the baby as they were in March. Whilst you know that if they stay that way and things don’t improve there can only be one way that things will end for you. That’s with a divorce and you raising your child on your own. The thought makes you feel sick. 

 

More than that though you wish that you could do something to fix it. To fix the fact that all Mycroft can feel is worry. To fix the fact that every insecurity he’s ever had seems to have swollen up inside him until he can’t push them aside like he usually does. But most of all to stop that worst-case scenario from ever having to happen… 

 

*

 

One night you get yourself so worked up about it all that you can’t sleep. You just lie on your back in bed, staring up at the ceiling, whilst silent tears stream down your face. 

 

Mycroft’s lying beside you but you can’t bear to look at him. Nor can you bear to just lie there thinking any more. So you sit up a little awkwardly, before you clamber to your feet. 

 

“F/N?” comes Mycroft’s soft, questioning voice just before you get to the door. 

 

You start and turn back to him. You hadn't even realized that he was awake. Maybe you really _are_ a goldfish-

 

“Can’t sleep?” Mycroft asks, sitting up now and flicking on the bedside lamp, before he looks at you concernedly. “I could get you something?” he adds when you still don’t say anything. 

 

You bite at your lip for a moment, before you shake your head. “I'm fine,” you get out unconvincingly, before you turn away from him. 

 

Mycroft sighs. “Are we going to talk about this?” he asks just as you move through the door. 

 

You freeze and huff out a breath. Then, slowly, you turn back and move across, before you sit down on the edge of the bed with your back facing him. 

 

He pushes the duvet back a little, before he crawls across, only coming to a stop when he’s behind you. 

 

Neither of you say anything for a moment. You just sit there with your legs dangling down to the floor, your head bowed thoughtfully and one hand resting upon your stomach, whilst Mycroft stares at you with his legs off to one side. 

 

“I guess I’ve just come to the conclusion that there’s not much to talk about,” you say, before you swallow. 

 

“What does that mean?” Mycroft asks, and he sounds torn between being a little angry and scared now. 

 

You swallow. Then you huff out a breath because you feel emotional enough just thinking about it all, let alone trying to explain it. 

 

_“F/N?”_ Mycroft prompts, and he shifts closer to you now, his hand going to your leg tentatively. 

 

You wriggle to encourage him to let go of you. He does. Then you swallow yet again, before you say, “I-I guess it means that I can see how this might end now”-

 

“You mean?”-

 

_“Us,”_ you say, looking around at him now, and you shift until you’re facing each other sideways, “Yeah, I mean us.”

 

Mycroft swallows. “Why do _we_ have to end?” he asks, trying to keep a straight head about things even though he just feels like grabbing hold of you in that moment and never letting go. 

 

You let out a bit of a whimper. “Please don’t make me say it,” you say, closing your eyes and scrunching your face up. 

 

“F/N I don’t understand,” he tells you firmly, urging you to enlighten him. 

 

“Yes, you do,” you reply, opening your eyes and staring at him, “You just don’t want to think about it.” He swallows but stares at you quite steadily back, not saying a thing. “You must know that if you can’t at least learn to feel something for this baby, for our child, then there’ll come a point when”-

 

“I won’t walk away from you, or the baby, no matter how”-

 

“Yes you will,” you choke out, “You _will_ walk away if you can see that you being there and you not being able to feel that way is hurting me.”

 

Mycroft looks down. 

 

You grab at his hand and pull it towards you, pressing it to your stomach. “Can’t you feel anything?” you ask after a moment of it being there. 

 

“For you,” he murmurs, “Not for the baby, not all the time.”

 

“Sometimes isn't”-

 

“I know,” he cuts you off roughly, before, not being able to cope with how useless and inadequate he feels he turns away from you and swings back down into a lying position, his back to you and his hand close to his head. 

 

You swallow and just stare at him for a moment. His eyes shine in the soft light of the lamp, and with the frown he’s wearing he looks so stubborn and thoughtful. You can’t even feel angry with him. Frustrated yes, for him not being able to feel that way, but not angry. Not when you can sense, especially now, how much he wants to feel a constant love and affection for the life that’s growing inside you. As you stare at him and let that sense of how he’s feeling grow and build up inside you, it finally comes to you, and you finally realize what you must do. So you move further up the bed yourself and switch off the lamp. Then you lie down behind him, press into him as much as you can and wrap your arms around him. 

 

“F/N?” he breathes automatically, as if he’s both questioning you and somehow grateful for your presence all at the same time. 

 

You swallow and clutch onto him a little tighter. Then you say, “It’s all right, it will be all right Myc, I'm sure of it. We’ll be all right.”

 

Mycroft’s eyes widen. Then he slowly rolls around so that he’s facing you and your arms loosen their hold on him momentarily to accommodate him. 

 

For a moment you just stare at each other. You take in the soft surprise that’s on his face and he takes in your determined, reassuring expression. 

 

“It will be all right,” you repeat, stroking at his cheek. 

 

“How can you tell?” he asks. 

 

You stop stroking at his cheek and just smile at him instead. “Because I know you,” you tell him, before you go on more confidently, “This is what you do, you think about things until there’s just worry there. As soon as you realize that there’s nothing for you to be worried about, as soon as you get to a point where you can push that aside, then you’ll have room for love.”

 

He swallows and just takes in your words for a moment. “You’re definitely not a goldfish.”

 

“What am I then?” 

 

He just looks at you for a moment. Then he brushes your hair back from your face as he says consideringly, “My beautiful, smart wife, who is so much cleverer than I have ever given her credit for.”

 

“That’s better,” you smile, before you close your eyes and snuggle up to him. 

 

“Everything will be all right now,” he murmurs.

 

“Mmmhmm,” you reply, shifting your position sleepily.

 

Mycroft smiles and kisses your forehead. 

 

Everything will be all right now. That’s what he tells himself. That’s what you both tell yourselves…

 

*

 

_November_

 

“Myc?” you try waking your husband, placing a hand on his upper arm. “Myc!” you try shaking him. “Myc! Myc! C’mon wake up!” you urge. Usually he’s a light sleeper but he’s like an immobile brick tonight. 

 

Finally he makes an incoherent mumble and his head jerks upwards. 

 

“Myc,” you say to try and ensure that he won’t go back to sleep. 

 

Mycroft can hear your voice. It’s there but it’s not coming through to him clearly because he’s still befuddled by sleep. He blinks hurriedly. Then he rolls around so that he’s facing you. _“F/N?”_ he asks once he sees that you’re standing by the bed fully dressed and looking rather uncomfortable. He swipes a hand across his face to rid himself of his remaining sleep. 

 

“Myc, I-I think I'm going to have to go into hospital. I'm bleeding,” you tell him, barely able to look at him as you do so. For you feel like _you’re_ the one letting him down now. 

 

“What? Where?” Mycroft asks, scrambling into a sitting up position and both looking and feeling more awake. 

 

You shift your position uncomfortably. “Down there,” you say, your voice coming out all strangled and wrong.

 

A little breath escapes Mycroft. “Right, right don’t panic,” he tells you, and you nod although your chest can’t help but feel a little tighter as soon as he says such a thing. Why is this happening now? You feel a stab of pain hit your stomach and it makes a jerk of breath involuntarily escape you, before you clutch onto your stomach automatically. “Myc I need to go,” you tell him, “I need to go to the hospital right now.”

 

He nods and reaches for his phone, swallowing rapidly as he does so. 

 

Everything seems to happen quickly after that. The pain in your stomach seems to come more frequently, making you cry out. One minute you’re half-listening to what Mycroft’s saying on the phone and the next you’re considerably getting in his way as he tries to pack a hospital bag and get dressed himself. In the end he has to take you by the shoulders and sit you down on the rumpled unmade bed. When the ambulance arrives Mycroft shuffles you inside it and sits beside you as you rush to the hospital, his face pale and anxious as he toys with your hand. You lie down on the uncomfortable gurney. 

 

“Why is this happening now? Why is this happening now?” seems to be the only thing you can say as the pain gets worse. You toss your head uncomfortably about; your forehead already sweaty. 

 

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Mycroft replies, his voice getting increasingly louder and more frantic, and you slap his hand away because he’s useless and he’s not helping you like you want him to. “F/N”- he mutters, trying to grab at your hand again because right now on this cold, confusing night that’s the only thing that makes sense. That he has to touch you, hold you in some way or nothing will be all right-

 

“You’re useless,” you tell him thickly, slapping his hand away again. 

 

A flash of hurt crosses over his face. 

 

“She’s senseless love, don’t worry,” the woman paramedic who has a strong South Wales accent says, passing in front of him now with a needle. 

 

“What are you”- Mycroft begins, stretching out a hand to try and either stop her or reach for your hand again, but it’s already too late, the needle has already gone into you. 

 

“Christ, I'm not gonna hurt her love. It’s just to get her more comfortable, it won’t last long, she’s half-asleep anyway, ah look, there she goes,” she says, as after a final twitch of your hand your head slumps down upon your shoulder. 

 

_“F/N,”_ Mycroft breathes, not liking this woman who sticks needles into you without properly explaining before she does so, this ambulance or the fact that he doesn’t know what’s wrong with you. 

 

He hates it even more when you’re whisked off as soon as you arrive at the hospital and he’s just left there standing in the corridor after being told that someone will be with him shortly. 

 

He feels like pulling rank and telling them all that he’s the British government and that they should damn well hurry up and tell him what the hell’s going on. But he feels even less brave now that he’s on his own and he can’t even see you. So in the end he just sinks into a chair and waits. It’s half-past two. 

 

*

 

It is quarter to four. Mycroft still doesn’t properly know what’s going on. He’s tried to find out. Every time he asks someone they just say that they don’t know what’s going on and that they’ll try and find someone who does. He’s tired. He can feel a headache forming in the back of his head. That’s nothing though compared to the fear he feels. He shifts his position. In this hour and a quarter that he’s had without you he’s probably thought of and covered every scenario in his head. Some of them more than once. But the one that he just can’t get rid of is the one where you’re dying. The one where you've lost too much blood or there’s been too many complications. The one where you’ll never speak to him again. Never say his name or that you love him. Never say anything. The one where it becomes fact that the last thing you ever said to him was that he’s useless. Perhaps he is. That’s certainly how he feels. Useless and like his mind’s spiralling out of control. It would be bad enough for the pair of you if the baby died. You’d be devastated and blame yourself, whilst he’d be upset, mainly because you were, and probably wonder if there was anything that he could have done to prevent such a thing for the rest of his life. But if you were to die right now then he knows that he’d never get over that, that he’d never forgive himself for getting you pregnant in the first place…he buries his head in his hands and begins to cry. He can’t live without you. His body begins to shake. Someone sits down beside him with a soft thump. His head jerks up and he sniffs and splutters a little as he does so. It’s Sherlock. Mycroft swipes at his eyes and inwardly scoffs at himself. He’s losing it. He wants so badly for someone to comfort him in that moment that he’s begun to see his little brother, begun to imagine that everything’s all right between them. But Sherlock can’t be here. Sherlock’s at home in Baker Street probably sleeping an untroubled sleep and-

 

“You look like hell,” Sherlock says, shoving a cardboard cup of coffee into his hand. 

 

Mycroft looks down at the cup that’s in his hand. He blinks. It’s still there. That’s when he knows that Sherlock’s actually there. _“Sherlock”-_

 

“I had a feeling,” Sherlock begins, looking at him for a moment, before he looks at the wall opposite them, “That something wasn't right tonight. I don’t know why. So I phoned your house twice. When no one picked up that’s when I knew that I’d been right. I came here on the off chance that I’d see F/N or hear some news about her.” 

 

Mycroft doesn’t know what to say to that so he just sips at his coffee and shifts his position.

 

Sherlock looks sideways at him. He shifts his position too. “On my way here,” he begins tentatively, “I thought that I was coming for F/N.” Mycroft looks at him. “To be there for _her_. To make sure _she_ was all right.” 

 

“Well, I'm sure she’ll appreciate it,” Mycroft says a little heavily, and he feels hollow on the inside as he looks away because he doesn’t want to be reminded of the mess with his brother tonight. 

 

Sherlock makes an impatient sound in his throat. “I haven’t finished. The reason that I felt the need to come here so badly was because I thought she wouldn't have any one. I thought you would have probably left the hospital by now, I didn't think you’d be waiting around.”

 

Mycroft huffs out a breath because it’s so nice to know the amount that his brother trusts him to look after you. He runs a hand through his hair. “Yes, well she does have someone, she has _me_ , and if you could postpone telling me why I don’t deserve her for the hundredth time then I would appreciate it, even if it’s just for tonight. Right now I just want to find out what’s going on and be there for my wife.”

 

“I know,” Sherlock says. Mycroft looks at him. Sherlock opens and closes his mouth a few times looking frustrated. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” he says, waving his hands. “Before I came to sit by you I’d been watching you for a little while”-

 

_“Sherlock”-_ Mycroft begins, sounding weary, and he’s clearly of the belief that nothing good can come from his brother’s words.

 

“I know you love her,” Sherlock blurts out to Mycroft’s astonishment, and as Mycroft looks at him Sherlock hunches down a little as if he’s bracing himself for his brother’s reaction. “I see that now. I see how important she is to you.”

 

Mycroft looks at him long and hard for another moment. “I never wanted us to end up in a situation like Father did with his brother,” he confesses. 

 

Sherlock looks down at his knees. “I never wanted that either,” he admits, one of his hands fidgeting a little with the fabric of his trousers.

 

Mycroft, feeling encouraged, says, “All this time, that’s one of the things that’s been eating me up the most, the idea that we were repeating history and becoming them.” Sherlock looks at him. “You were younger, you didn't see it or feel its effects as much as I did. But I felt the tension and all the hurt that would seep into the room as soon as anyone mentioned the matter, as soon as anyone even mentioned Uncle’s name in fact.” He pauses. “I never wanted to feel that whenever your name was mentioned,” he finishes, looking carefully at Sherlock now.

 

Sherlock swallows. Then he opens his mouth and says, “I never wanted that either, I'm sorry,” and he looks across at the wall opposite them now, “I’ve kind of-I don’t know-wanted to make things better for a while I guess. For F/N more than for anybody else. She came to see me the night before the wedding, did she say?” Mycroft nods. “Her words, they made me think”-

 

“They do that,” Mycroft can’t help but interrupt with a bit of a tight smile and Sherlock nods at him. 

 

“But I still didn't really want to fix things enough between us to do anything. I still didn't trust you with her, I still felt so mad and angry with you…then tonight, when I came here and saw how you must have been genuinely upset to cry like that when you thought no one was looking, I suddenly realized how much you love her. Suddenly I wanted things to be all right between us again not because of F/N, but because of you. So that you might-I don’t know-be a little happier again I guess”- and he breaks off now, pulling a bit of a face.

 

“What is it?” Mycroft asks, though he’s pretty sure he already knows. 

 

Sherlock looks a little sheepish, “I told F/N when she came around to see me that night that her cheesy words wouldn't work on me so not to bother saying them. Now I'm just spouting out a load of them myself.”

 

“It’s amazing,” Mycroft says, smiling a little in spite of himself, before he goes on to muse, “The effect that one person can have.” Sherlock makes a sound of acknowledgement. 

 

But before anything more can be said a bearded man in his late forties, wearing a long white coat steps down the corridor towards them. “Mr. Holmes?” he says, looking in between the two men. 

 

The irony that it could literally be either of them the Doctor means isn't lost on either of them. 

 

“It’s him you want,” Sherlock says, jerking his thumb at Mycroft and slouching back in his seat. 

 

Mycroft hurriedly puts his rapidly growing cold coffee on the floor and jumps to his feet. “How is she? How’s F/N?” he asks as soon as the Doctor looks at him. 

 

“She’d lost a lot of blood,” the Doctor says, drawing himself up. “A blood transfusion was carried out shortly after her arrival at the hospital, followed by some tests we conducted to try and establish the cause of the bleeding and the discomfort that she’d been feeling in her stomach.” Mycroft swallows. He feels like his legs might give way at any moment. 

 

_“And?”_ he asks, trying to hurry the Doctor up a little. 

 

Sherlock meanwhile leans forwards in his chair and assesses the Doctor calculatingly with his eyes, feeling a little breathless as he does so. 

 

“Its been established that your wife’s suffering from placental abruption”-

 

“What does that mean?” Mycroft quickly asks. 

 

To his surprise it’s Sherlock, not the Doctor who responds. Sherlock who reels off, “It’s when the placenta is separated from the wall of the uterus, before the baby’s born.” 

 

Mycroft just stares at him for a moment, before he looks back at the Doctor a little questioningly. 

 

“That’s right,” the Doctor says, before he adds, “In this case and in terms of what it means for your wife and the child she’s carrying, because of the fact that the baby was showing clear signs of discomfort as a result of the tests we did it has been decided that an emergency caesarean was the best option. That will be carried out straight away.”

 

“The baby’s not due until December,” is the only logical thing that Mycroft can think of, his face paling. 

 

The Doctor however doesn’t seem that concerned. “We’re only talking about a week, a week and a half here from when the baby was expected.” Then when he can see that Mycroft still looks uncertain he adds, “Believe me Mr. Holmes this is the best chance that the baby has for survival. We've explained the situation to your wife and she’s given her consent for the operation to go ahead.”

 

Mycroft nods then because if you've given them your consent then there’s really not much he can do, that’s the way that he automatically feels. But then when he remembers about how the ambulance woman had called you senseless and how out of sorts you’d been when he’d last seen you, he can’t help but feel even more worried and say, “I'm not sure that she was in her right mind, she might have signed and not known what she was doing”-

 

The Doctor clearly thinks that he’s overreacting, and he gives Sherlock a bit of a look as if to ask him to help him out here.

 

Sherlock reaches forwards and grasps hold of Mycroft’s arm. Mycroft looks back at him, trying to shake him off instinctively. “Sit down,” Sherlock urges. 

 

Mycroft doesn’t want to comply. He looks back to the Doctor, wanting to argue some more, wanting to even insist that he should see you so that he can make sure you’re as all right as you can be. But his body betrays him and sits him back down automatically. A huff of breath escapes him from the relief he instantly feels at doing so. He swallows, trying to get himself back under control. Then he looks back up at the Doctor and asks, “When will I know if its been a success or not?” 

 

“In due course,” the Doctor says, offering him a brief, forced smile, before he strides away. 

 

“Oh God,” Mycroft breathes, because as soon as the Doctor goes it’s like he realizes just how much he can’t cope with being in this situation any more. He bows his head and presses his hands to his face. 

 

“F/N wants this baby,” Sherlock says, trying to help his brother get more under control because that way he knows he’ll feel safe, “You heard what he said, she’s given her consent, she’s willing to”-

 

“She could die,” Mycroft exclaims loudly, screwing his eyes shut now and causing someone who’s at the other end of the corridor to look down at them in concern. 

 

“Pfft,” Sherlock says, waving a hand and trying to brush it all off even though Mycroft can tell that he’s scared too. “She’s not going to die. The last thing she’d want is to leave you to single-handedly raise your child.”

 

“Maybe that’s what’s going to happen,” Mycroft says, lifting his head up and staring fixedly at the wall opposite. Sherlock looks at him. “Maybe because I’ve never wanted this baby as much as she has I'm going to be left to raise it all by myself as punishment”-

 

“Christ,” Sherlock exclaims, before he adds, “Well I _really_ hope that she doesn’t die now if you've started to believe in ridiculous stuff like that”- 

 

Mycroft lets out a bit of a helpless groan because he can’t deal with Sherlock talking about the matter so jokingly, before he buries his head into his hands. “She’s my life,” he mumbles, feeling desperate. 

 

Sherlock looks at him steadily for a moment. “I know,” he says quietly, resting his back more firmly against the chair. 

 

Mycroft stays as he is for a moment. Then, slowly, he lifts his head up from his hands and turns it so that he can hazily look at Sherlock. “How did you know so much about what F/N’s suffering from anyway? I’ve only ever come across the phrase once or twice during my reading, and as you saw just then I couldn't tell you exactly what it was about in as much detail if you asked me.”

 

Sherlock shifts his position. “Well,” he says, before he swallows a little. “As soon as I learnt that F/N was pregnant I thought it might be prudent of me to do a little research into any problems she might face, just in case she ever started exhibiting any worrying symptoms whenever she was around at Baker Street and I could help. That’s what I was doing during your wedding actually, trying to read up on it all. It’s sort of ironic to think I was reading about placental abruption on the day that you were pledging to be there for each other for the rest of your lives.” Mycroft pales even more now and Sherlock can tell that he’s just said the wrong thing, so he says, “Anyway, I'm glad I did, even though it turns out that I didn't need to and I can probably just delete it all,” in an attempt to distract his brother from the state that you’re in. Mycroft just stares at him, his mouth partly open, and he doesn’t know what to think of the fact that Sherlock, in his own odd little way, has been trying to be supportive to you both all this time. All he knows is that the more he thinks about it and takes it in the more touched he feels. Touched and absolutely speechless. Sherlock slowly realizes what his brother’s beginning to feel and starts to feel embarrassed because of it. He shifts his position and looks away for a moment. When he looks back Mycroft’s still looking at him however, so he says, “I might not have always been the best, or the _kindest_ little brother to you, but both your and F/N’s welfare, though particularly F/N’s of course, are of the utmost importance to me.” Mycroft swallows and looks away, still not sure what to say. “I only did it because I care.” Mycroft looks back at him. “Acted that way,” Sherlock elaborates. 

 

Mycroft stares at him for another moment. “I know,” he says, still feeling rather blank and mixed-up about it all.

 

“Good,” Sherlock says, sounding relieved and brushing at his trousers with his hands, “In that case I can go back to thinking that you’re annoying.”

 

Mycroft feels a sudden urge to cry at such words, and as he stares at his brother and takes in those wild curls, stubborn eyes and the little upward flick of the lips, which tells him that everything is all right between them now, he thinks that he might cry even more. Not to mention when he takes in the fact that his brother is actually here, waiting with him despite the fact that he doesn’t have to and despite the fact that he’s scared too. 

 

In the end though Mycroft doesn’t cry. He doesn’t even say anything. Nor does Sherlock. But somehow the silence between them and the steady presence of the other is enough. 

 

*

 

Dawn is breaking by the time the Doctor returns. 

 

Both of the brothers are tired, but neither of them has fallen asleep, even for a moment, and when the Doctor stops before them they both get to their feet in unison.

 

“It went well,” is the first thing the Doctor says, and Mycroft lets out a breath of relief, whilst a tentative smile forms on Sherlock’s face. “F/N’s tired and a little groggy from what she’s been through, but she’s awake and I can take you to see her now if you want.”

 

Mycroft wants. He wants a lot in fact, and just the thought of being able to see you again and hear your teasing voice is like music to his ears. There is one other matter though. “The baby?” he asks. 

 

The Doctor’s face falls slightly. Mycroft’s heart skips a beat, and that’s the moment when he realizes just how much he wants this baby after all. “We've taken him”- _him!_ Mycroft and Sherlock look at each other now-“To the newborn intensive care unit. He’s a little on the small side, but we've got every hope that he’ll pull through, and you are more than welcome to go down there and see him.” Mycroft feels relieved by the words, and such a thing must show on his face, for the Doctor sees fit to caution, “I must warn you though that sometimes, in these cases, the baby does pass on shortly after the birth.”

 

“He’s a Holmes, he’ll live,” Sherlock says with a false confidence, and Mycroft knows that he’s trying to compensate for all his rubbish behaviour over the past few months, but it doesn’t matter whether Sherlock believes in what he’s saying or not. Not when Mycroft’s got his brother back, he’s got you, _and_ he’s a father. 

 

“Yes he’ll be fine,” he says, feeling oddly confident and optimistic about the fact. “Can I see F/N?” he asks, looking back at the Doctor. 

 

The Doctor nods and begins to lead the way through the maze of hospital corridors. Mycroft feels so desperate and anxious to see you that he hardly takes in how uncertainly Sherlock’s trailing after them. 

 

The Doctor opens the door and Mycroft steps inside the private room that you’re in. 

 

You’re lying down. One of the first things that Mycroft sees is the spread of your h/c hair across the pillow. As soon as you realize that he’s there you try and lift your head up and sit up. 

 

“Don’t you dare move,” Mycroft growls, and you huff out a breath, before you sink back down into the bed. He strides over to you. _“F/N,”_ he says in one soft relief-filled breath as soon as he’s standing over you. He stares into your e/c eyes and takes in the slight paleness of your cheeks. You’re tired, that there can be no question of, but you’re most definitely alive. “You scared me my love,” he murmurs, his true feelings coming out of him without him being able to help them as soon as he sees you, and he tangles his fingers with yours momentarily, before he lets go of them so that he can gently stroke your cheek with the back of his hand. 

 

“Sorry,” you manage, and Mycroft lets out a choked sort of laugh, before he bends down and presses a soft kiss to your shoulder. He stays down there for a moment, just breathing in your familiar scent underneath all the new hospital smells, and you run a hand soothingly through his hair, knowing as you do so that no matter how pained and groggy you’re feeling the past few hours have been a lot worse for him. “I love you,” you tell him. 

 

He lifts his head up and draws back from you slightly. “That’s an improvement on what you said to me the last time I saw you.” You look at him in puzzlement. “You called me useless,” he reminds you. 

 

“Oh Myc”- you begin with your heart sinking and you curse yourself inwardly for pushing at his insecurities even though you’d been too out of it to help it at the time. 

 

“I thought that was going to be the last thing that you ever said to me,” he admits with a weak smile. 

 

“And leave you to raise little Holmes by yourself? _Never_ ,” you vow. 

 

A watery smile breaks out across Mycroft’s face. “That’s what Sherlock said,” he confesses quite without thinking. You stare at him, your face even more puzzled, and Mycroft realizes both what he’s just said and how long its _really_ been since he last saw you. “He’s here,” he begins to explain, “I-well, maybe you should see him for yourself,” he says. Then, making up his mind, he gives you one last steady look, before he goes to open the door so that he can try and locate his brother. 

 

Sherlock’s waiting just outside, and his eyes lift up uncertainly from where they've been grazing across the floor as soon as he hears Mycroft open the door. 

 

Mycroft looks at him for a moment. “Come,” he says, and slowly Sherlock does. 

 

He stops just past the threshold and looks back to his brother uncertainly. 

 

Mycroft nods to the bed, “It’s all right,” he says, giving his brother permission. “Come.” Without further ado he leads the way over to the bed. 

 

“You've looked better,” is the first thing that Sherlock says as soon as he’s joined Mycroft and peered down at you. Mycroft snorts. 

 

“Yeah, well at least I'm not the one who’s been living off stale vending machine coffee for the past few hours,” you retort, and Mycroft smiles at this show of spunkiness from you as he brushes your hair back from your face. 

 

“True,” Sherlock concedes, “But it is your fault that I’ve had to do that, so I think _I_ win that one.”

 

“No one wins anything,” Mycroft says with a bit of a frown when you open your mouth to protest, for he doesn’t want you to tire yourself out. 

 

You sigh. 

 

“God you should have been a woman,” Sherlock murmurs, looking at his brother. Mycroft looks at him and you let out a mix between a laugh and a pain-filled gasp, which makes both of the brothers look quickly at you again, before Sherlock goes on, “You've got that same in-built mothering mechanism that Mummy seemed to”-

 

“Because you would know all about how Mummy reacted to her first child being the youngest,” Mycroft retorts without being able to help himself. 

 

_“Boys,”_ you breathe, and they both look at you at once. It’s quite comical really, the speed with which they do so with. “Sherlock stop making me laugh, it hurts. Myc I think he’s trying to compliment you and say that you have absolutely no foundation to worry about being a father because you’re going to be a great one.”

 

“That was not”- Sherlock begins. 

 

“I'm trying to stay positive here,” you override him with one eye open. Then you open the other and tangle Mycroft’s fingers with yours as you ask, “Have you seen little Holmes yet? They just swept him away from me. I didn't even get a chance to see him.”

 

Mycroft shakes his head, and as he sees how your face crumples and begins to grow more anxious he knows instinctively what he has to do. “I’ll go and see him now and bring back a full report. Come Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and gives your shoulder a quick, reassuring squeeze, before he trots out obediently after his brother. 

 

*

 

Little Holmes is one of many babies in incubators in the unit, and at first they don’t spot him, not even when the nurse who’s on duty points in the general direction that he’s in. 

 

“They all look the same,” Sherlock says, pulling a bit of a face. 

 

_“There!”_ Mycroft hisses, pointing, before he slowly leads the way over to him, his heart thumping as he goes. 

 

He bends down as soon as he’s there. 

 

“Well, he’s certainly got the Holmes nose,” Sherlock comments, crouching down. 

 

Mycroft makes a sound of acknowledgement but he’s barely concentrating on Sherlock’s words. The only thing that he can see is the tiny yet beautiful boy in front of him. The boy who might have his nose and hair but who has your shape face and your gentle smile and no doubt your spirit and personality infused in so much of him. Mycroft wants to pick him up and cradle him and take him to you at once because now that he’s here and staring at this tiny thing that makes him want to protect him so instinctively he has no idea how he’ll ever be able to go back and describe the perfection of your child to you. No idea how he’ll ever be able to find the right words to sum up all the feelings that are being created inside him right now. 

 

Sherlock straightens up and joins Mycroft on his side, peering down at the baby but not bending down again to take a closer look. Mycroft straightens up too. 

 

“F/N said that she was considering making me godfather,” Sherlock begins tentatively, “I guess I was just wondering what you think about that idea?” He looks at his brother. 

 

Mycroft, still staring intently down at what he can see of little Holmes doesn’t say anything for a moment. Instead he just thinks about it all. “I guess,” he begins carefully, “That as long as you give me your word that you won’t take him to _too_ many crime scenes I wouldn't have an objection to it.”

 

“ ‘ _Too_ many?’” Sherlock picks up on. 

 

“Well,” Mycroft says with a bit of a smile, “I thought you’d never be able to keep the promise if I said none at all, and in any case, what with his mother being a police officer the boy’s bound to be curious, even if he didn't have a consulting detective as an uncle.”

 

Sherlock smiles, and the two brothers stare steadily at one another for a moment, before they both look back to little Holmes as one, both wondering as they do so what sort of interests he’ll have and what sort of person he’ll grow up to be. Sherlock in particular also thinks of all the things he’ll have to teach him and feels excited when it occurs to him that he might, in a few years time, have a willing person to help him with all of his experiments…

 

*

 

“He’s beautiful, he’s got your smile,” is the snippet of conversation that Sherlock hears his brother say before the door closes shut behind him. 

 

Sherlock watches from the window as Mycroft goes across and sits in a chair beside you. He’s got his back turned to him, but Sherlock guesses that he’s talking in a rather animated fashion by the way that you’re staring at him looking dazed but pleased and occasionally opening your mouth to no doubt press him for more details of your child. Your hand seems to tangle together with Mycroft’s instinctively and Sherlock’s not quite sure who first grasped hold of who. All he knows is how genuinely happy you both look as you talk close together and the sight makes him feel both happy and lonely. 

 

There seems to come a bit of a pause then, and you look up and across over Mycroft’s shoulder, catching sight of him, whilst Mycroft strokes at your hand. 

 

Sherlock, not quite knowing what to do now he’s got this sudden unexpected eye contact with you nods. 

 

You smile and beckon him to come in and join you both. 

 

Mycroft turns his head and gestures for Sherlock to join you too. 

 

Sherlock though, knowing that everything is as it should be, just shakes his head. Then, feeling fully satisfied for the first time since you’d started your relationship with Mycroft all those years ago, he moves off down the corridor.


End file.
